Of Glass
by the return of merry
Summary: He was a ghost, and nothing more. A ghost who thrived in the darkness.
1. Chapitre Un

**Disclaimer: I obviously don't own the DaVinci Code. **

**This is the prologue to the story. **

They had been living this way since before he could remember. Small house, no windows, candlelight to bright the rooms in their dim, flickering fashion. The doors were tall and narrow - intimidating, some might say. Everything was covered in a fine film of dust; the dishes were always grimy.

The boy could not recall a time when his mother had not looked exhausted. He supposed she had been pretty at one time, but that time was far-gone now. The only memories he had of his father were of the loud, boastful man who drank too much and liked to sing French Revolution tunes after he'd drained a few bottles of wine and Irish whiskey. He could see the kitchen as it was, the scrubbed wooden table - dirty, as always - crumbs of bread on the spindly chairs, an upturned glass resting in the middle, a puddle of what he reckoned was milk once seeping slowly out and onto the scarred wood.

Maman sat always to the left of Papa, who was at the head. the boy sat across from his mother, never daring to glance up from his plate, lest he see her dead eyes, icy blue in the gathering dark. Their house was always dark, for as long as he had lived there.

'Ghosts do not need light, eh?' Papa said, ruffling his hair with a clumsy hand.

Ghosts never needed the light. Ghosts thrived in darkness. When he was younger, Papa would stand him before the mirror on the western wall and make him stare.

'Look at yourself, boy. Look at the monster God has made you.' He would glance at the cieling, brown eyes raised to the heavens. 'This is my punishment, eh? I think I am repented and get myself a new life, a nice house, and this is what you give me? A ghost? _Est-ce que c'est à être ma vie? Pour souffrir ici avec ce morceau et son ordinateur de secours foutu? Pourquoi me punissez-vous?'_

The boy would listen, and stare into the glass, and hate what he saw. He hated the pale flesh and the red eyes. Why did this God have to make him so? Why could he not have been blue-eyed like his mother? His father would clap a great meaty hand onto the boy's shoulder, and he would stiffen, flinch away. After a few years, the boy knew to come to the glass, even without his father. Every Monday after dinner he would stumble over, stare into his reflection, and loathe every inch of the waif-like creature that glared back. Skinny, bony, crooked teeth. Red eyes, white hair, and milky skin.

'I am a ghost,' he would hiss. 'I am a ghost.'

Afterward, he would sit by the stove, testing the hot coals with slender fingers until the skin burned blood red.


	2. Chapitre Deux

**This is a bit like a bunch of drabbles sort of cobbled together to make one story, so please bear with me that they are short. Happy reading! Please review!**

His mother cooked.

Every morning. Every night. She said she had been doing it since she was a girl, when she cooked for her Maman and Papa. If this was true, the boy certainly found no evidence of it. His mother's cooking was heavy and greasy. She had been good once, when she was still young and pretty. Before his father had lost his dream of priesthood, before the boy.

'You never told me,' Papa chewed out, pushing his plate away. 'You never told me getting fat and ugly would make you a bad cook, too.'

Maman stared evenly at her plate. She ate the same thing every night. They all did. Thin broth and burnt, crusty black bread. Forego the butter, that was Papa's, and slather everything in lard. They drank water or milk on most nights, tea on Sunday. The boy bit his lip nervously, trying to disappear into his rickety chair. Peering out from behind a curtain of dirty white hair, he watched Papa stare down Maman, sucking his teeth and muttering to her.

'Useless, disgusting thing. Give me a filthy creature for a son. _Un fantôme!_'

And then Maman would bow her head, eyes of the floor. He switched his gaze between the two - Papa, big, furious, his brown eyes glued to his wife, and Maman, with her delicate nose and careworn face, chewing her bread as though this was her last meal.

But, Papa was not finished yet.

'_Tu as un putain_,' he hissed, and the boy could hear his mother's choked sobs. '_Vous donnez me cette chose misérable, c'anormal, et vous s'asseyant sur votre cul paresseux toute la journée!_'

Maman stood to clear the plates, and Papa stood to make himself a bother. The boy ate silently still, observing, as he did every night. Somewhere in the far corners of his mind, he knew he was at fault for all of this. _Mea culpa_. He drank his tea. _Mea maxima culpa_.

'_Nettoyez ces plats, femme._'

She never would learn to be fast enough.

Next minute, Papa had upset the table, and with it, the boy's dinner. He dropped to the floor, ignoring the feet of his parents, Maman scampering to the cabinets, Papa looming over her, shouting abuse in his loud, Northern accent. There was food on the floor, and that was the concern of the moment. He pressed his face to the rough wood, oblivious to the pushing and shoving, the shards of glass dotting the ground like bits of fallen snow. It did not matter now if the boy cut his tongue, or was stepped on, or was hit by the chair his Papa now held in the air.

There was food on the ground, and he was hungry.

He picked the crumbs with his fingernails, licking them from his grimy skin as though they contained the solution to all of his problems. Papa's greasy steak had fallen, surrounded by broth and rice. The boy licked each floorboard, his tongue protesting at each splinter of wood. He licked his lips, took Papa's plate, and licked that too. Next came Maman's, and then the pottery cups, and the flatware. Above him, Papa had taken the broom from the Eastern Wall, and Maman pleaded with him to stop.

'_Il est une fantôme_!'

His stomach complained that it was empty still, but the boy paid it no heed. Righting the table, he crawled beneath it to sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes red as the burns on his fingers.

He thought of the mirror, of the reflection that stared back each visit. Wretched. It made him feel ill, to think of his face. Skinny and pale and revolting. He loathed himself, truly - down to the last millimetre. The sound of a slap above and his mother's whimpering drew the boy's face to the wood floor. He imagined the slap had hit his face instead, and flinched.

Soon, the noise faded, and Maman fled to the bedroom. The boy remained under his table until Papa had departed with a vicious kick that struck his shins.

All night he stayed there, the tabletop a sturdy roof above his gleaming white head, curled into a tight ball on the cold floor. He forgot about Maman and Papa. He forgot his face in the mirror, the daemon's face that stared out from he glass. He forgot that he was seven and small and skinny.

Celestin Moreau was nothing more than a ghost.


	3. Chapitre Trois

**They're slowly growing in length. **

**This one is a bit more narrative than the other two, but I wanted to show Silas (Celestin) with his family, and not just observing them. **

Papa said God was punishing the family. Why else would his son be so monstrous? Such things were a sure sign that God was angry, and he had taken it out on Celestin Moreau.

They were sat around the table for Sunday dinner, and Papa gave the prayer.

'_Dieu, nous vous prions pour la rémission de nos péchés. Nous vous prions nous soulagez de cette malédiction, parce que nous nous repentons avec le coeur pur et l'esprit clair. Amen_.'

The prayer being said, Papa took his first bite. It was family tradition that the father ate first, testing the food before he could approve it for his family. Beside him, Celestin felt his mother stiffen in anticipation. It would not have been the first time his papa had rejected a dinner, and those were some of the very worst nights. He bit his lip, watching Papa, and then Maman, wondering what he had done to his family that God would punish them so horribly.

Papa chewed slowly. He always chewed slowly. "To savour the flavour,' he explained. The test could not be performed correctly if he rushed, but Celestin could hear the grumble of his own stomach from somewhere down below, and he felt Maman's hand on his lap - a gentle warning. Patience.

'No good,' Papa announced finally. He thrust his plate forward, and Maman scurried to clear it away. Everything must be done with haste. Everything. The table must be cleared, the dishes washed, a new meal prepared. Maman never had much time for anything. She never ate after Papa rejected a meal. To do so was strictly forbidden. Papa said the bible gave a woman her place, and she must adhere to the Holy Book above all others. If he told her to do something, he always followed it with, "God wills it".

_Dieu et mon droit_. God and my right. It was the reasoning his papa lived by, the fabric that held their lives together. A man had a right to an obedient family. A wife had a right to a husband who would protect her from outside influences (though the cruelty of his own hand held no limits). A mother and father had a right to a good son. A son had a right to ... nothing. He stood when they told him. He made their bed and scrubbed the lavatory and listened to stories of Joseph and his amazing coat of many-colours. He dreamed he could walk on water. He wished for a tan and blue eyes and black hair. He hoped one day to see England and Germany and Italy.

And he had a right to nothing.

Maman set down a bowl of broth with shaky hands. If Papa did not approve this time ... Celestin bowed his head. He said the prayer along with his father, watching the food with eyes glittering hungrily. There was little broth left now. Maman poured the rest into the potted rose she kept by the sink. It reminded her of Italy and Spain, places she had visited when she was younger and studying to be a teacher.

'Tea,' ordered Papa. This time, it was Celestin who hurried to oblige. With the stealth of a cat, he swiftly removed the mug from the table. Maman pursed her lips, for she never approved of him touching her porcelain. He could drop it with his clumsy hands. It was only when he returned with a full mug of tea that Papa noticed him. 'Is my son a woman?'

The boy balked. 'Non, Papa!'

'Is my son so sinful as to take the responsibilities of a woman from his mother?'

At this, he did not know quite how to reply. Ought he to lie, to tell his father no? But would he not be in more trouble should he answer yes, and proclaim himself sinful?

'No - Oui, Papa.'

Papa set down his tea, appraising his son. Celestin, small, nervous, trembling with a nervous energy that permeated the room, was watching his papa with wary eyes. He was too small, too pale, too sombre for a boy of seven. On very rare occasions, Monsieur Moreau pitied his young son. Did not Jesus Christ tell him he must do so? And when he remembered this, he felt he must make up for the times when he allowed his temper to get the best of him. He pulled the boy to him, offering tea and broth.

'The hungry are always sinful.'

The boy nodded. Always. 'Oui, Papa.' He would say anything, do anything, for these moments with his father. It was not the same with Maman, who was always quiet and tiny, floating around like a limp sheet. Papa could be risible. He could tell jokes and pat his Celestin on the head. The boy smiled crookedly; the two front teeth had fallen out, leaving behind a gap as black night. And Papa smiled. Papa smiled, feeding him broth and tea and promising a peaceful night. Maybe a peaceful week.

'It is holy to suffer, Celestin,' said Papa. 'The holiest men have suffered, and the church makes them saints.' He appeared deep in thought for a moment, then waved for the dishes to be taken away. 'Maybe you are destined for the sainthood, Celestin.'

Maman removed the dishes silently and proficiently, her lips drawn into a tight line, but Celestin Moreau saw only his father's eyes as he breathed, 'Oui, Papa. Peut-etre.'


	4. Chapter Quatre

**Next bit, and thanks to those who have reviewed. I live off responses. **

It was common knowledge throughout the neighbourhood, and beyond, that la Familie de Moreau was strange. M Moreau and his timid wife could rarely be seen in public, strolling the pleasant streets, shopping, playing with their young son, who must have been school age by now.

Celestin Moreau attended no school. He had no friends. Maman and Papa rarely allowed him outside "because of his condition", and even if he could go out, the boy well doubted whether he truly wanted to. No one would like him, God's curse on the family. _Le fantôme_.

He had met other children before. Two, to be exact, on a short excursion to Paris. They were twin brothers, and though Papa had warned him twins were spawned of the Devil himself, Celestin had watched the boys endlessly before finally being allowed to join them. They were on holiday from England – black hair and blue eyes with lovely freckles and rosy cheeks. They were six, he was four. He wanted desperately to look like them.

They stayed inside, la Familie de Moreau. They kept to themselves and emptied the post box at night, when no one else was out.

Les Moreaux did not celebrate Christmas, at least not in the usual way. They decorated the door with a simple crucifix, made of pinewood by M Moreau's late father. They fasted and prayed, and later, when the rest of the Christian world was busy unwrapping gifts and eating delicious food, Celestin was allowed a bit of chocolate. It was his own personal tradition, begun by Maman when he was but two, and he looked forward to it all year.

'Joyeux Noël, Celestin,' Maman would whisper, and slip him his sweet. He kept the chocolate with its bright foil wrapping securely in the wooden crucifix on his wall, which was hollow and ideal for stowing small treasures.

This Christmas, Maman had no chocolates. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured, rubbing a work-worn hand over her stomach. 'I've nothing for you this year, Celestin.'

He turned away, his small face twisted with rage. Maman always had chocolates on Christmas. _Always_. And if she hadn't any for him, it was _her_ fault. Hands balled into tiny fists, he stalked away, but not without making his exit known. Behind him, Papa's fish soup crashed to the floor. He missed the flinch that followed, striding out the door with his head held high.

He knew he deserved the insults; the round the head slaps that left his ears ringing and eyes brimming. He knew he had earned every blow, but that never made it any easier. Perhaps spilling Papa's dinner on the floor, his _Christmas dinner_, had not been angelic. Perhaps he was not very well behaved. The boy inside Celestin was never curious. It sat quietly and accepted everything as it was. But, the Boy controlled not all of him. He called his uncontrollable side _Seraphin_. Seraphin came when Celestin was angry, and he never left without causing some sort of trouble for the boy. It was he who took a knife to the pillows two Aprils ago, he who scratched out the fourth commandment from Papa's bible, he who had spilled the dinner on the floor when Maman had no chocolate. Seraphin was responsible for white hair and red eyes, for spilt milk and crumbs, for debilitating anger that never seemed to fade.

'_Inutile_!' Papa roared. The windowless house shook, as if frightened. Maman stood by the wall with a rag in her hand. It was wrong to watch as well they all knew. 'My Christmas dinner! _You_ would toss it on the floor? _INUTILE_! WORTHLESS!'

And with each word Celestin shook. He counted in his head, one slap, two, three, four. He imagined himself as the English twins. Two of him – Celestin and Seraphin. If only Seraphin could find some other body to torment. If only Seraphin gave warning before he came and broke things.

'Papa is worthless,' Seraphin said. He glanced up; Papa had stopped dead, frozen, mouth hanging open. He raised his voice, gaining in confidence. 'PAPA IS _WORTHLESS._' Papa made no move. '_INUTILE_! PAPA, PAPA, PAPA! STUPIDE! WORTHLESS! _PAPA DU FANTÔME_!'

He pranced about the kitchen, circling the table and shouting as loudly as his tiny voice would allow. Papa watched impassively, Maman clutched at her rag.

'_Papa du fantôme_! _Il m'haine, mais je s'haine!_'

The house itself had stilled entirely. Not a creak of old wood could be heard. The crumbs on the table, the spilt milk, the yet-to-be-cleaned dinner on the floor – they all watched. Celestin, no, _Seraphin_, skipped as though he was on a playground. He shook his bum a bit, and jiggled his foot. He even stuck out his tongue, for a moment or two. The dam was broken. M Moreau was certain his son had gone quite mad.

'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE,' announced Seraphin. The house was silent, so he said it again. 'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE.'

He stood with his hands on his hips, feet spread apart, and the horrible silver hair gleaming in a very self-satisfied sort of way. He was Peter Pan now. Skinny body, white skin, crooked teeth. He would never grow old or die. Feet spread, trembling fists, mouth moving silently.

'_WHAT_?' the boy shouted. He liked the way it sounded. '_QUOI_! POUR_QUOI_! _JE NE SAIS PAS_! _JE NE SUIS RIEN_!' Red eyes glittered as they met chocolate brown. 'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE.'

Papa nodded. '_Je sais_, _Celestin_. I know.'

'Maman has no chocolate.' The first tear came without warning. 'Maman has no chocolate.' It was followed by another. 'She _always _has chocolate.' He was whining. The tears came without any sign of stopping, but Celestin made no move to wipe them. He let them fall down his cheeks where they left tiny tracks of glistening water. 'It's all _her_ fault,' he whimpered. Papa nodded, gazing steadily after the wispy little boy. The ghost of Christmas past.

'I know.'

'Not _mine._'

'I know.'

'Maman has no chocolate.'

Papa watched, Maman watched. Celestin sat on the floor with his legs crossed. He felt his energy leave. His voice was soft.

'I am a ghost.'

Papa came over slowly, his feet making a crunching sound as brown boots thudded over broken plate. He lifted the boy into his arms, and then set him by the looking glass.

'You are a ghost.'

It was a sad face that stared back at Celestin Moreau. He could feel his papa leave. He never knew how long he sat and stared at himself, but in a bit the sounds of cutlery on china plates and hushed conversation floated over to the glass. The smells of Christmas chicken and soup filled his nostrils, but he couldn't smell them. He never knew how long he sat, but soon the noises faded. His parents padded off to bed. The reflection glared back at him, but he felt nothing, not even a twinge of remorse for his monstrous appearance. It was difficult to see now. He always had difficult seeing in the dark. Red eyes were blind, pale lips mute.

'_Je suis un fantôme_.'

The house was silent.


	5. Chapitre Cinq

**Happy Christmas, everyone! And Chanukah, and Kwanza, and Solstice. **

The family Moreau was not a happy family. They were not a pleasant family, a functional family, or even a halfway decent family. Indeed, some might argue that they were not a family to begin with, and so they were not. M Pierre-Marcel Moreau and Janina Franck had never married. They never intended to, and had it not been for the child, they might never have seen one another again. Celestin Moreau was the reason why his father could not be a priest, and why his mother had never returned to Warsaw. They were the family Moreau because of him, and, because of him, they were miserable.

He used to sleep in bed with Maman and Papa. He remembered it still. Cold nights snuggled between them became warm. He dreamt of sunny beaches and blue water where John baptised the Holy Son, just as Maman read to him from the big book she called _la Bible_. He was safe in the dark, with Maman on the right and Papa on the left, their arms intertwined over his chest, and _la Sacré-Coeur _beaming at him from the wall. But then there was _la Nuit Mal_. Celestin remembered waking to Maman's whispers and prods, remembered the warmth and the smell – the putrid smell of a toilet that has yet to be cleaned – and Papa was shouting.

'_Dégoûtant, la créature qui dégoût_!'

He didn't know what wetting the bed was, but it was something filthy and disgusting. It made Papa twist his face into the ugly monster's face that pulled him from the bed and shook him by his sopping trousers. Maman whispered, Papa shouted, and Celestin cried. He kicked and screamed his way to the crawl space by the WC. He slapped Papa, but Papa slapped back. He begged and insulted in his own way, and when nothing happened, when Papa left him alone in the crawl space with a blanket and pillow, Celestin Moreau blamed himself. It was his fault he had wet the bed and upset Papa. It was his fault he was in the crawl space instead of the warm bed, curled up by himself with a blue blanket and anger and darkness that clawed at his soul until it broke in two.

Seraphin made Celestin a good boy again. Seraphin was the bad boy who broke plates and spilt Christmas soup, Celestin the angel who sat in front of the mirror and never made a sound.

'Celestin, give the blessing tonight,' said Papa. He wiped his eyes with tired hands, Maman's fingers brushing the creases from his trousers under the table.

'_Cher Dieu_,' the boy began. '_Cher Dieu, nous vous donnons nos gratitude pour cettes nourritures. Nous vous demandons qui vous nous pardonnez. Merci beaucoup, et Amen._'

They ate in silence, for the most part. Celestin listened to the scraping of forks on china plates and his father slurping tea from a cracked glass. Maman smiled at him, and he knew it was because of the chocolate. They – Maman and Papa – had both kept to themselves lately, but the now the New Year was past, and they could no longer pretend as though their son did not exist.

'Celestin, would you wash the dishes for me tonight? _Je suis si fatiguée._'

And Papa said, 'Your maman needs rest, child, be a good boy and clean up for her.'

Celestin said nothing.

Later, when they had both gone to bed, the boy set down the heavy butcher's knife he had been washing and wandered to the mirror. He never made it. A fire crackled in the hearth, a dying fire, but it was enough to attract the attention of a little boy with white hair and red eyes that reflected the glow with a fire of their own. Papa and Maman were fast asleep by now. Surely no one could see him now….

Maman's red scarf would match perfectly with his eyes, and Papa's brown hat to cover the unmarked white of his hair. Rouge that had not been touched in years was dug out from beneath decades-old curlers, and now his cheeks were pink like any normal boy's. With a black pen he gave himself freckles, and Maman's shoes to add height to a seven year-old's miniature frame. The fire sparked; he danced.

'_Je t'ai aime, mon cherie,_

_Nous dansions en Tunisie_

_Et tu as dis qui tu m'aimes_

_Je pense je t'aime, je pense je t'aime_!'

He repeated the song, each time enunciating the final "aime" with a shake of his bum.

'_Je t'ai aime, mon cherie_.'

Maman and Papa used to hug him, when he was little and had a nightmare.

'_Et tu as dis qui tu m'aimes_.'

She read him stories from _la Bible_, and he wanted nothing more than to meet this Jésus and demand to be tan.

'_Je pense je t'aime_.'

The fire crackled, and Celestin blew kisses. Bonjour, Monsier! Bonjour, Mme Chaise, et M Lampe, et des Mlles Fenệtres. Bonjour, Bonjour, Bonjour! He blew them all the biggest, loudest kisses he could muster. Bonjour! Je pense je t'aime.

'_Je pense je t'aime_!'

The scarf unravelled; Papa's hat fell to the floor. Furiously, maniacally, Celestin scrubbed at his face. It hurt, he registered faintly. Maman's rouge was stubborn, but lye soap from the cupboard solved that. The face that grinned back from the mirror was flushed and stained with rouge and black ink. Celestin could not remember ever thinking he had looked as beautiful as he did just then, with splotched pink cheeks and black ink making tracks down his cheeks. He blew himself a kiss, turned off the light, and went back to the crawl space.


	6. Chapitre Six

**This scene was particularly difficult to write. I'm exhausted, my back hurts, and I couldn't remember what the book covered on this**.

His eyes were as good as useless at night. Celestin had enough trouble seeing in the dim light of his house, with the flickering light-bulbs and the lone torch with its dying battery, but night was worse. At night it was too dark. He saw nothing. Blinking rapidly, the boy reached forward - hands grasped tightly on what he supposed was the wooden bed-frame. Maman rolled over, muttering in her sleep.

'_Maman_!' He had not been this close to the bed in years. '_Maman, j'avais besoin d'utiliser la toilette!'_

Maman grunted. 'What is it, Celestin, at three o' clock in the morning?'

'_C'est la toilette_,' he cried. 'It's _broken_, Maman.'

Maman sighed. She listened as Celestin described the toilet's gurgling noises and overflowing water, all the while yawning and kneading her eyes with tired fists. 'Go back to bed, Celestin, before you wake your papa,' she said when he finished. Celestin looked mortified at the thought.

'_Mais_ - ' he began. Maman cut him off.

'Go to bed, Celestin. We'll fix the toilet in the morning.'

He left, his eyes twitching and useless all the way back to the crawl space.

By the time morning came, Celestin was curled into a ball, nestled between his blanket and pillow, a content look on his pale face. He smiled and opened his eyes, glancing around his little bed. The world was always a blue for Celestin Moreau. He could see shapes, and sometimes finer details, like a nose or a fork, but things tended to bleed together in his eyes. They twitched, and the table was nought but a blob before him. They always twitched, especially when he was upset. It made him angry, the jumpiness. He saw his mother's face one minute, stretched and tired, and then she was smudged, as though he was trying to look at her through a dirty glass that was always moving.

He sighed and threw open the door to the crawl space, striding out in his underwear and looking for Maman and Papa. It did not take long for the whispers to reach his ears. He had good ears.

'_Damned thing_!' It sounded like Papa. Celestin edged loser to the water closet, squinting at the door and begging it to focus for a moment. His eyes were as jumpy as he felt, for he knew in his gut that Papa had seen the clogged toilet, and the broken plunger.

'He's only a little boy!' came Maman's pleading. A moment later, the door burst open, Papa striding out with Maman in tow.

'A little boy, my arse! He is a monster! He is a mistake!'

They argued as if he was not there, as if they could not see him. He went to the kitchen and back; they were still at it. Sitting with a bowl of milk and a piece of bread, he turned up his head to watch the show. They made his eyes jittery, with their constant movement and loud shouting, but one did not need 20/20 vision to watch a fight between Mademoiselle Franck and the father of her child.

'He didn't mean to, Marcel! You know he didn't - '

Papa slapped her. Once. Again. She slapped back, but weakly. Celestin chewed his bread.

'Please, Marcel, we can fix it,' she pleaded. Her eyes were watery and blurred. Finishing his milk, Celestin stood. Still, they ignored him.

'You - will - not - talk - back - to - me!' Each word punctuated by a slap and a flinch, and Papa stood back, as if to survey his handiwork. Maman's cheeks were red, even Celestin could see it. she shook heavily, and he knew it was not his eyes. She dropped to Papa's feet with tears on her cheeks, and the boy turned his back, walking to the kitchen.

They followed him in, Maman cowering and rushing to pour a mug of coffee, Papa sat in his chair, face twisted into an ugly snarl. Celestin wondered who the real monster was.

And then Papa noticed him.

The world seemed to freeze as they stared one another down, like animals. Celestin was wary, Papa furious.

'_Vous_,' he hissed, his neck quickly turning a brilliant shade of purple.

Celestin balked.

'_Moi, Papa_?' he asked innocently. Red eyes blinked slowly, trying to focus. Papa leered at him.

'Come here.'

He stayed where he was, listening to Maman rushing around behind him, trying to make porridge in half the time.

'I said, _come here_.'

He glared, feeling Seraphin creeping into his mind. Seraphin said not to worry, and he didn't. He glared.

'If I have to leave this table, boy, so help me - '

'Breakfast!' Maman set the bowl down so quickly it nearly cracked. She hurried Celestin to the sink, instructing him softly to wash everything inside.

He was drying the chopping knife when he heard it - the unmistakable sound of a heavy kick, coupled with his mother's moan. Papa did not stop there. Face pink, he kicked until Maman begged him to stop.

'_S'il te plait! Marcel_!'

Papa grunted, yanking her up by the crown of her head. He turned, pushing past Celestin, to drop Maman in the centre of the kitchen. She sat on the floor as he insulted, clutching her ears and muttering.

'Slut! Bitch! I'll not have you in my house - not in my - giving me that bastard - you'll - burn - I -'

He did not finish. With the stealth of a cat, Celestin crept up behind him; in his hand, he held the knife. His face was set. Papa turned, it seemed, in slow motion, jittery and blurry in the boy's red eyes.

'What are you - ?'

'You are not going to hit Maman anymore!' he shouted with all the force his tiny body could muster. Papa froze, his brown eyes wide as they had been the last time Seraphin rebelled. 'You are not going to hit Maman anymore!'

Papa started toward him, but he kept up his chant, brandishing the knife as one might a torch. His eyes shook worse than ever.

'YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HIT MAMAN ANYMORE! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HIT MAMAN ANYMORE! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HIT MAMAN ANYMORE, YOU BASTARD!'

His tiny face had more colour in it than it ever had - red and purple and sickly green. He jabbed with the knife, missed, and jabbed again.

'BASTARD! MONSTER! _JE VOUS HAINE_! _YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HIT MAMAN ANYMORE_!' He blinked back his tears, willing his eyes to straighten for a moment and allow him to see Papa better, Papa the moving target that stared dumbly as though he had never seen his son before. 'YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HIT ME ANYMORE! I'LL KILL YOU! YOU CAN'T HIT ME ANYMORE!' He stabbed, slicing into Papa's back as though it was nothing more than a chocolate cake. Red bled into white hands and a little boy as pale as snow dropped his knife and fled.

The words ricocheted around his head, taunting him. _Je suis morte. I am a ghost_.

He wiped his eyes, and kept running.


End file.
